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The Heart of the 
Singer 



BY 

FRED WHITNEY 



PALO ALTO 

CALIFORNIA 

1908 



LIBRARY of OONt^HSSS 
ivfo (Jopies rtecujyyj 

MAY 16 11908 

jopyngfii entry 

20S 3 7d 



Copyright, 1908, 

BY 

Fred Whitney 



■^35^5 






STANFORD UNIVERSITY 
PRESS 



To her whom life's perversive zvill 
Refused its promise to fulfill. 
And held her soul in bondage strong, 
Gave her the heart but hushed the song 
Till failed the singer, this brief strain 
With love is dedicated. The pain. 
The hope, the strife, the call for art, 
The worded song — all this her heart 
Saw dumbly die, yet saiv begun — 
She gave her talents to her son. 
And with their tutored wealth he sings. 
Raising the perished song on wings. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Water Bird 7 

A Vale of Flowers 12 

Light 14 

Why, O Singer? 15 

Hither 16 

Lines to M. W 17 

Cloudland 20 

Yonderland 22 

Aidenn . . . . . . . . .23 

Shadow 25 

The New 26 

The Jolly Spring 27 

Winter Song 29 

Serenade 30 

The Flower 31 

The Oriole 32 

Albia 33 

The Chant of the Cataract . . . . .35 

The Old Casa ..37 

The New Sea 39 

Blue Lakes 40 

Irene, A Fragment 41 



SONNETS 

PAGE 

California 55 

Argonauta 56 

Interim ^y 

The March of Light 58 

Sleep 59 

O Sea ! 60 

. Youthtime . ♦ 61 

After 62 

The Greening Field 63 

Wintered 64 

Whence 65 

Song Unheard 66 

A Captive Hour 67 

The Artist Hand 68 

The Hope in To-morrow .... 69 

Garners 70 

The Day 71 

Inspiration 72 

The Three-fold Self 73 

As One Whose Soul Accords . . . 74 

The Dull-houred Realm 75 

Two Powers 76 

Service 77 

The Wintered Spring 78 

In Store 79 

Triumph 80 



THE WATER BIRD 

Whither away, whither away, 
O water-haunting bird above the moor? 
Thy pinions with the wide air play. 
And call me toward thy winged way 
In airy, yonward flight the sealand o'er. 

For to my fettered soul thou criest, 

Forever criest of the open way, 

As through the endless air thou fliest. 
Or on the boundless water liest ; 

And may forever flee or ever stay. 

The homeless wind is in thy wing, 
And in thy wandering heart a spirit wild. 
The waters, flowing, to thee sing. 
And clouded skylands to thee bring 
A luring call, from other hearts exiled. 

[7] 



Sky unto sky, with note soul-haunting, 
Thou tellest of the mystic land : Somewhere. 
Forever of its knowledge vaunting. 
Forever of its beauties chanting : 
The haloed lyric land of my despair. 

The land of my most inward dreams 
Which goes before me ever wraith-like fleeing 
That aery land of fitful gleams, 
Of wavering tints where poetry teems : 
Along the border line of real being. 

A land of mists and waters gray, 
Of whisper-haunted fens and zephyrs sighing, 
Of wandering berg and iris ray, 
Of enchanted, moving, endless way : 
A land of mountains dim far, hazy lieing. 

Thou knowest where its borders rise ; 

The magic distance of its charmed dominion 
As, through the nightward ocean skies, 
Where rosy glow of sunset lies. 

Thou passest like a cloud on snowy pinion ; 

Or, in the golden-misted morn, 
Arisest from the lake with glinting plume; 
From off its emerald bosom torn. 
By thine afflatus heavenward borne. 
Thy farland, wending journey to resume ; 

[8] 



Or, through the moon -illumined night, 
As fleecy cloud to cloud thy way thou takest, 

A shadow in the silvery light, 

A passing bird in skyey flight 
Which, crying down, the water spirit wakest ; 

Or, as through the rack thou goest, 
A gloomed image in the misty shroud 

Which, waking from the air, outflowest ; 

Whose birth and airy flight thou knowest, 
And criest with the voice of night and cloud. 

Thou knowest of that Somewhere world — 
Forever of its dreamy vision telling — 

And, stooping where the waters purled, 
Are whispering to the sedges furled, 
Thou hearest the secret of its far impelling. 

It's in the half-ht shades of dawn 
Which, gloaming, o'er the marshland reaches spread, 

And in the gauzy veiling drawn 

Along the moon-lit waters wan 
Where pass thy trailing numbers seaward sped : 

And in the flight-seen miraged lake ; 

The distant river's azure- winding line ; 

The plash y land where tide flows take 
Their creeping way ; the misty brake ; 

Which, dreaming, lie beneath the border line. 

[9] 



Or, far from marish land or lea, 
Upon thy pilgrim wingings unconfined. 
Out o'er the foamy-waved sea, 
Above the green-deeped mystery. 
Thou hearest the secret in the passing wind. 

Thou hearest : but doth the yearning 
Which makes my seeking soul to flights aspire. 
The insatiate spirit burning, 
Forever to that Somewhere turning. 
Come to thy tameless heart as Art desire? 

Is that which sends my soul in flight, 
Its inspiration and its strife renewing. 

O'er misty shores or waters bright 

The urger of thy far delight 
From tarn to sea; of thy wild heart's pursuing? 

Is that which shapes my nature's course. 
Its genius and its whereward drift renewing, 
The fountain of thy migrant course, 
Its endless giver and its source? 
Is't that which shapes thy ways, its form concealing, 

As, on some nighted bayou flown. 
Where pass the dreaming hours in downy gloom. 

Thy Impulse comes to thee, alone 

Upon the waters starry sown ; 
And, in thy nature-spirit makest room? 

[lo] 



The sprite of sedgy slu is thine, 
The genius of the tided sea, the bay ; 

And, breasting o'er the endless brine, 
Thou foUowest the trend Divine 
Which wafts thee on thy seeking journey-way. 

And, with thy sky -traversing wing — 
The rhythmed expresser of thy nature's ways — 
Thou bringest to me, interpreting. 
The soul of sea, of marsh, of spring, 
Unto my nature's trend its harmonies. 

And, where the lyric numbers flow, 
Which tide and sky with spirit stress prolong, 
I stand upon the marsh below 
To mark thee where I may not go. 
But feel the One Impulse which breaks in song. 



["] 



A VALE OF FLOWERS 

I walked into a vale of flowers 

Which idly dreamed, entuned with bees, 

And round me hung the golden hours 

Which whispered : '* Life's a thing of ease/' 

"A Spring day dream, a scent, a song, 

A vale Elysian trial free." 
And down I sank these sweets among 

Thinking to pay to life no fee. 

I drank my idle spirit's fill 

Of thoughtlessness from ease untold. 

But as I lay the bee grew still. 

And from the bright hours fled the gold. 

Then I awoke with wounded sense, 
And cried: "Is this, is this the ease 

For which my spirit was lured hence? 
Is this the lot will pleasure please ? ' ' 

[12] 



Then straight a voice rose from the gloom 
"The bee was toiHng while he sang; 

'Twas effort filled the odorous bloom, 
And every sweet from trial sprang." 

''The bee is now within his bower 
Enriched by his tuned wing's employ ; 

The stem is laboring at its flower. 
Who will not toil may not enjoy." 



[■3] 



LIGHT 

On beams of light from heaven's sun 
Men mount the skies and outward run 
With burst of vision, seeing bright 
What lay before in shadowy night. 
Or whether with angel's acclaim 
Light flood the gloom in savior flame 
To light a world, or dimmer beams 
Where someone idling vaguely dreams. 
It's still the light, and from above ; 
The guide of strife, of peace, of love. 
It makes the teacher, poet, sage, 
And burns men's hearts into the page. 



[14] 



WHY, O SINGER? 

Why, O singer, tell me why 
Do you sing a song of sadness, 
Dearth of hope and dearth of gladness? 
Know you not that joy and sorrow 
Each from other something borrow. 
That Beauty makes its soul of white 
Half of day and half of night? 
From cold wet earth grow golden flowers. 
Richest hearts from troubled hours. 
Sigh not then nor sing sadly. 
Know that life may treat you badly, 
Or that it may meet you gladly. 
Joy ever follows pain, 
Sunshine always follows rain. 
Round the world in low or high 
Weeping, laughing life goes by. 



[15] 



HITHER 

Hither pray, wend away 

In the golden-houred day. 

Bees around the blooms are singing, 

Butterflies Hke fairies winging 

To the nectared cups are cHnging. 

Blowing flowers everywhere 

Sweets in everything 
All in unison declare 

They bring the happy Spring. 

Every blitheless thing's forgot 
Winter's sighs and frowns are not. 
From the old the new is winning, 
All's in the beginning. 
Love and life in harmony 
Sweet as ever they may be. 

Hither, pray, 

Wend away. 
And, before their sweets depart, 
Let them blow into your heart. 

[i6] 



LINES TO M. W., IN MEMORY 

Good-bye, dear friend of ripened years, 

For you are gone. Gone through the peaceful night 

To that bright dawn which Hes beyond Hfe's ills. 

And with your passing comes the thoughts 

Of times now worn away : 

When you first came ; 

And I, with childhood's blithesome will, 

Was playmate of the fields and flowers ; 

And how, long months, 'twas you and I alone 

To do the homely tasks and share their bread, 

To build the comfort kindlings on the hearth, 

And hear the creature call of wintered winds. 

But most, of all our builded friendship did, 

I now recall, as I have done with you : 

'Twas you who, from the careless blossom meads 

Of halcyon dreams, urged my young course 

Toward lettered shaping of the self within. 

And, though you never understood just why, 

Yet in your woman's heart you felt 

The nearer lots of plod, the toiler's strife 

[17] 



Were not my being's heritage. 

That I'd a finer call than forge or field. 

And so you planned that I should find my tasks 

In other ways than use of years 

But humbly with the sod at toil. 

And when, in the unfolding months, 

The argument of inconvenient change 

Would seek to hush the tongue of better tales, 

And sink the upward course in common lot, 

'Twas you who, with persistent thought, 

Strove for my tutored youth, and gained for me 

A lengthened chance toward my unwakened light 

Until was touched the tenor of my soul, 

And dawned the nascent vision of my life. 

And though you smiled when I told you my dreams, 

How I should write, and of the visioned walls 

Of castles in my rapture land before, 

I counted sure that I should come and say : 

This have I done to prove my prophet tongue. 

And give a form to your instinctive thoughts ; 

Here is the thing achieved. I've caught the dream. 

But my slow feet, still struggling at the task, 

Have missed the slipping years with glean of straw, 

For all which men have reckoned as success. 

And you are gone. 

Gone out by life's wide change 

With but the irised vapor of my dreams 

[i8] 



To prove that what you felt was worth the while. 

And so it is. With life before 

We listen to our souls when they cry : '* Forth." 

Nor understand, but follow out and in 

In search of earthly spots in skyey realms, 

Taking the evening wage of faith and fears, 

Until death comes and locks the mortal house 

And hides the key. And we may never know 

If what we've felt and vainly striven for 

Is well or ill. But, in a contra course 

Strive on and think it well 

Till someone come in after time and find it so. 

But in this country, lit of gray-houred dawn 

Or shined of stars, we find it cold and drear. 

And I have sometimes wished I had not waked 

From thoughtless seeing of the show of life. 

But stayed behind, content 

To take Hfe dull and own the bliss of souls 

Not harrowed by the martyr-thoughts of men. 

But I may not turn back ; the gleam leads on. 

And, with the stronger thoughts of faith 

Whose steps climb up, I ask for will like yours 

Which knew to faint and fall and yet to strive, 

To face the stubborn rise of my life's hills. 

For still I lift my eyes to see 

The castles on the mountains of my dreams. 

[19] 



CLOUDLAND 

Far-off Cloudland, beautiful rack ! 
Which, waking from the planet's ether track 
Along the vapor-breathing solitude, outpours 
With gauzy hills and drifting slopes and shores, 
With island images of earth 

And crystal sands, 
With floating vapor-peaks of viewless birth ; 
Along thy strands 
My waking spirit sweeps 
A gossamer host of Thought's creations frail ; 
Visual shapes of the ethereal Mind — 

Brought forth of feeling's deeps — 
Which, striking on my mind's ordered detail 

In harmony, 
Of its own form builds and of the Spirit's varied 
kind. 

[20] 



As, in the duller ways, the level-seeking stream 

Upon its endless circling to the sea, 
From misty ether dream 
Of skies unto the scarce-translucent deep, 
With limpid waves 
The kindred margent laves, 
And, from the contact of its reverb' rant sweep, 

A throbbing melody awakes 
Which is not only from the marge and from the 

stream. 
But from them both and of that Impress 

Which, thrilling through them, music makes. 
And, on the Spirit's stress. 
Above the dull forms rise 
An aery likeness of them twain unto the skies. 



[21] 



YONDERLAND 

Whither bound? I gaze and question. 

Not that I feel not the soul's immortal, 
The spirit's rich with that suggestion ; 

But whence and where, what earthen portal 
Shall open when this temple falls? 

Or shall the air enfold the spirit, 

Breathed out from this terrestrial form, 

To touch no land, though wandering near it ; 
A volt of force the ego's norm, 

Or but a pulse where darkness palls? 

Is't not that from this tarrying place 

The form-freed soul takes spirit way. 
Circling through yon world-hung space 

Until it strikes affinitive clay, 
To rise anew in other life. 
And build beyond this earthly strife? 

If it is not so, the ego hurls. 

Then why this clay and why these worlds? 

[22] 



AIDENN 

What realm far yonder wending from, 
White clouds of the traveling wind ? 

What autumn azure is your home 
In Aidenn dreamland far behind? 

That skyey realm of magic dreams 
You wander from. Where Fancies go 

O'er vapory fields of yellow gleams 
Where trees as golden shadows grow ; 

Where ether waves on gauzy shores 
Keep strains of music memory hears, 

And the viewless soul of Passion soars 
O'er mist- made hills and aery meres ; 

Where wavering heights and snowy peaks 
Look on the starry loiter vales, 

And Poetry earthly robings seeks 

'Mongst Reverie's haunting beauty tales. 

[23] 



That realm of visual soul desire, 

Of half- revealed mystery, 
Of mist-hills Ht with flameless fire 

Or dim with charms of yesterday. 

Whither bound from that enchanted place 
White wraiths of the landless blue? 

Your charm is left in its embrace 

When you this sky go wandering through. 



[24] 



SHADOW 

What matters it, my soul ? 
Here is the blossom meadow. 

And all around the sun is bright, 
It is the day and not the night. 
What matters it, my soul. 
If you went down in the valley of the shadow ? 



[25] 



THE NEW 

What makes the hour, that we should say- 
Here passes the old away? 
Spanned by the width of a mortal day 
We fix on a point in space sublime, 
And run with the breath of human time, 
In the course of the yonward range, 
On through the fleeting change 
Till we say it is sped, 
There it lies old and dead. 

Time flies 

And the old year dies 
In eternity whence it grew. 
Then hail ! here is the New. 

How vain was the soul with a dream afire 
Which saw the transient hour expire. 
How vain was the plan which arose 
But to meet its close 
In the chance to build temples unbid, 
How vain the light by darkness hid ! 
For we say it is sped. 
There it lies old and dead. 

Time flies 

And the old year dies 
In eternity whence it grew. 
Then hail ! here is the New. 

[26] 



THE JOLLY SPRING 

It is the Spring, the jolly Spring, 
Sweet and gay with flower and song. 
Oh come with me a wandering 

The happy vales among ! 

For they're a tale a-telling, 

A tale that's ever young. 

The buds, the blades, the blushing blooms 
Are tip-toe all a-listening 

Upon the bashful meads. 
The hairbell listens tremblingly, 
The dandelion plumes. 
The love vine round the rose is saying : *' Guess." 

The cowslips hang their heads, 
The lilacs whisper: "Yes." 

And unto me and unto you, 
The secret thought betraying. 

The wooing breezes slip about and through 
Aye coyly, sweetly saying : 

[27] 



"The sky is blue above, 

The bee is round the clover ; 
Oh come and be my love, 
And I will be your lover." 

The leaflets clap their hands 

As a breeze steals round their way, 
And sweetly o'er them fans. 

And there upon a spray 
A little bird is singing 

Unto his mate : 

'' Sweet, oh sweet ! it never is too late. 
Oh love is always winging ! " 

Then ho for hearts a-loving ! 

And ah for those who may ! 
It is the jolly, jolly Spring. 

It cannot pass away. 



[28] 



WINTER SONG 

A robin sat singing in a tollon tree : 

Come back, O Springtime, come back to me. 

'Twas Winter's days over field and hill. 

But the sun was bright and the winds were still. 

The sky was wide and blue overhead, 

And he sang and said : 
Here are the red blooms, but somehow it's late. 
I sing on the bough without my mate. 

Such beauty to see 

With the sun in the tree ! 
Come back, O Springtime, come back to me. 



[29] 



SERENADE 

It is the hour 
When the night-blowing cereus flower, 
As sweet as eventide in June, 
Puts forth in beauty with the moon. 
But hngering beside thy bower, 
O lady mine, it wears thy sweets. 
And with thy charms my presence greets. 

But list ! 
The evening moth its lips has kissed. 
And, with the bliss of honeyed art. 
He plunders sweetness from its heart. 
And ah, my love ! they'll soon depart, 
The moth be flown, the flower faded, 
And with my love you unpersuaded. 
Let not vain waiting be my fate. 
Awake ! For you I wait. 



[30] 



THE FLOWER 

She stooped with languid grace 
And a dreamy, glowing face, 
And plucked a flower from its place. 
She brushed its petals 'cross her lips 
And touched them with her finger tips. 
She asked not why 'twas there it grew, 
Nor if it drank the morning dew, 
Nor half its beauty saw nor knew. 
Her lips would but repeat : 
You are sweet, sweet. 



[31] 



THE ORIOLE 

Oh, who is it so sweetly sings, 
Pouring from his gladdened throat 
Liquid joy in fluting note? 
Voicing all the sweets a-dreaming 
In the season's early beaming, 

What melodist Spring joy brings? 
The oriole, the oriole ! 
In the air, the trees among ; 

Richest, sweetest singer soul. 
Turning all his golden beauty into song. 

Oh, who is it the buds among. 
Drinking sweets and telling love, 
Bearing bliss the earth above ? 
What gladdened heart with music swelling, 
To the skies in rapture telling 

How beauty may be turned to song? 
The oriole, the oriole ! 
In the air, the trees among ; 

Richest, sweetest singer soul, 
Blythely carroling how beauty may be sung. 

[32] 



ALBIA* 

Albia is form most fair. 

Her eyes are deeps of blue, 
Sunbeams are her hair. 

Her breath the breath of flowers new, 
Her face Spring's witchery. 

Her voice the murmur of the sea 
And the sound of singing streams. 

Of all her kind on earth may be 
None else there is like her to me. 

She's the weaver of my dreams, 
The prompter of my fancies 
i In the vernal days 
And the golden Summertime. 
Me she showeth glances 
Rarest from her eyes, 
Leadeth me where sweetest beauty lies. 

*Albia : From New Albion, the name given California 
by Sir Francis Drake. 

[33] 



Telleth me tales wondrous 

Beneath the starlight glorious, 

Whispering in measures sweet with rhyme ; 

Giveth me the poet's pen, 

Filleth my heart with lire then, 

Presenteth me with treasures fit for king ! 

What may I but sing? 



34 



THE CHANT OF THE CATARACT 

I come from the mist-crowned mountain heights : 

Ho ho-o ! Ho ho-o ! Ho ho-o ! 
The giant of the rain and the snow. 
And sing and shout as I take the flights 
Which run to the sea below. 

Hu ho ! Hu ho ! Hu ho ! 
The voice of the canon it is mine. 
I sing of the wind in the fir and the pine : 

Hu ro, ho ho ! Hu ro ! 
Of the storm in the wintry skies ; 
Of the gurgHng rain and the spray which flies, 
And shout through them all as I go : hu ho-o-o ! 

Hu ro ! Hu ro ! Hu ro, ho ho ! 

Hu ro, ho ho ! Hu ho-o ! 

I sing of the towering mountain old : 

Hu ro ! Hu ro ! Hu ro-o ! 
Of the chasms deep and the precipice bold ; 
Of the wild, gray dawn and the noon of gold : 

Hu ro, ho ho ! Hu ro-o ! 

[35] 



Of the stars which gHtter in the deep blue night, 
Of the journeying moon and her silver light, 

Of the iris bow, 

And the shadows below : hu ho-o ! 
For I carry them all in my breast as I flow. 

Hu ro ! Hu ro ! Hu ro-o ! 
I leap at the gorges below ; 
And laugh at the boulders would hold me back, 
For I am the great cataract: 

Hu ro, ho ho-o ! Hu ro-o ! 
I laugh and I sing as I go : 
Ha ha ! Ho ho ! Ha ha 1 Ho ho ! Ho ho-o ! 
The mountain' s above and the sea is below : ho ho ! 

Hu ro, ho ho ! Hu ro, ho ho ! 

Hu ro ! Hu ho ! Hu ho-o ! 



[36 J 



THE OLD CASA 

The full moon floods the balmy skies, 

The same fair moon which shone of yore 

When love-enkindled, dusky eyes 
Looked forth upon their amador ; 

When the guitar's sweet, plaintive measures 

Were vibrant here with lover's treasures. 

And up above the mesa brown 
The lonely cliffs in silence bide 

Where, in the olden, they looked down 
Upon the casa's peopled pride. 

But where the silvery moonlight falls 

There linger now but ruined walls. 

The Spaniard's soft, melodious voice 

Sounds here no more, nor trips his feet • 

Through the fandango's gallant joys ; 
And gone the whispering lovers sweet. 

The dashing troops of gay vaqueros 

With sashes red and decked sombreros. 

[37] 



The glad Senor's salute : *'Hola Don !" 

And, "Welcome friend," which followed after. 

The dark Senora too is gone — 

The silvery peals of merry laughter. 

The Senorita is no more, 

And gone the singing amador. 

No more he woos with his guitar. 

His serenade has died away — 
The horseman's shout faded afar 

With merry din of dancers gay. 
In jest and laughter careless hearted 
These gallant guests have long departed. 

Around the ruins but spectral shades 
Frequent the moon-enchanted night 

Where some old form half rising fades, 
And voiceless tales take backward flight. 

While to it all deep silence clings 

Save when a mocker wakening sings. 



[38] 



THE NEW SEA 

Down the azure inlet, wending, 
Let the winds blow as they list, 

And the dark-faced sea, insending, 
Plunge the lowlands all in mist ; 

But my soul, upon a headland, 
Holding presence with the sun, 

Looks out o'er a new sea, hght-spanned, 
And sees the full hours westward run. 



P. A., 1902 



[39] 



BLUE LAKES 

O emerald tarn, who called thee blue ? 

Thou mirror of the slopes and trees. 
Thou holdest naught of the heaven's hue ; 

But the green of the great Bard's seas. 

Or from what welkin came the dye 

That anyone in thee its tint should find ? 

It's not the arch now bends on high. 
Or, he who gazes, is he Bard blind? 



[40] 



IRENE 

A Fragment 

Farewell, loved land of childtime ! 

With memories dear to me. 
Your violet beds and wild thyme 

Cling to me lingeringly. 

And you, broad hills and woodside, 
Your sweets will never blow 

Where I, on ebb and flood-tide, 
Am tossing to and fro. 

The martin calls as day breaks 
From oak trees by the mill. 

And morn each golden ray takes 
From bursting hill to hill. 

The bee is round the red bloom. 
The oriole' s sweet with song ; 

But now at eve the dead moon 
Is eloquent of wrong. 

[41] 



Ah, love 1 I've felt your blue eyes 

Look faithfully into mine 
Where bright at morn the dew lies, 

And blows the eglantine. 

But Spring will fade and wither ; 

Your love is lost to me ; 
And heart and hope together 

Go down eternally. 

The joy which youth-time brought me 

Has found its yesterday ; 
For, when at last I sought thee 

To bear thy vows away, 

I learned the years to nothing 
Had brought my heart of love — 

I've felt that still it must cling — 
But no. 'Twould useless prove. 

For you have found another, 
And all is different, strange. 

And I (O heart, turn whither ? ) 
Am lonely in the change. 

The words of our love's shaping 
Are silent ; and their store 

Is lost in the sweet day's 'scaping. 
I may not love you more ! 

[42] 



This, then, the end of long years ! 

This, then, the end of all ! 
I here alone in wrung tears, 

And you to another's call? 

Still I'll not blame you, sweetheart. 
Although you bow my soul. 

For love, despite its deep art, 
May not aye love control. 

Lo, it may gain from friendship 
Itself in semblance dressed 

Till hearts strike down the kinship. 
And like's by Uke possessed. 

But mine's the sad misfortune 

To feel the riving blow 
Which severs with distortion 

My chilled heart from its flow. 

Thus hopes in pleasure waiting 

Have faded at the last ; 
And bonds of love's debating 

Have sunk into the past. 

Ah ! sweet to my rapt hearing 
The sounds of distant days 

When we, our young hearts nearing. 
Found love in children's ways ! 

[43] 



When we, to prove if true love 
Would be our happy end, 

Gathered the vine which new love. 
And, with a shut-eyed send, 

Cast it to fortune's wild will. 

And, so we fancied most. 
On some green bough it smiled still. 

And love would ne'er be lost. 

And other ways with blind chance 

We played at finding love 
In innocent strife to find whence 

Our future fortune' d move. 

And to my mind how fresh still 
Those ways we used to play ! 

They for us would every wish fill 
To pleasure time away. 

Oft bending by the brook side 

We sailed our leafy boats 
Where, in the noon, some rook cried 

While stilled were other throats. 

Or, in the evening's dim light. 

Along the dusty lane 
We raced the swallow's trim flight 

Till he came not again. 

[44] 



And, as the dark night crept on, 
And the hoot-owls raised their call 

We cuddled on the step-st6ne, 
Nor heard the Hght footfall 

Which came, nor broke our sleeping, 

And bore her to her home. 
Nor, till the gray dawn's peeping, 

Did we know bed-time had come. 

And how once more we, when day 
Was on with gladsome strain. 

Would seek each other, and play 
The hours all through again. 

A-swing between the tall trees 
On grapevines hung in loops. 

Or, searching where the fall is. 
We'd find the ferny troops 

Which linger after Springtime, 
And weave us crowns of green. 

And, though no more 'twas berrying time, 
We'd search where they had been. 

Then, 'mongst the brush and vine, we 

The bearing hazel marked. 
There, in some sunny pine tree 

The frisking squirrel barked. 

[45] 



And so the Fall would pass by- 
Till wintry grew the days, 

And, from hill to hill, would fast fly 
The clouds on stormy ways. 

Then in beside the fire-place 
We'd play from day to day, 

Or watch the storm its ire trace 
From tree-top's sway to sway ; 

And fancy we were hearing 
Men talk out in the storm. 

When, through the window peering, 
We'd see a shadowy form 

Cast on the scudding cloud drift — 
An old man dark and strange — 

Which, in the flow, would shift 
From view with transient change. 

Then we would shout together 
At that wild passing voice. 

And scarcely we knew whether 
'Twas men or tempest's noise. 

And how I liked to hear her 
When, with the chimney, she 

Would sing in treble clearer 
Its song of mystery ! 

[46] 



And dear too was her sweet voice 
When, beyond the river's marge, 

She'd wake the echo's fleet voice 
From out the frosty gorge. 

But dearer was her halloo 

When Spring was on the hills. 

From 'mongst the cowslips yellow. 
And gold the daisy spills. 

No bloom of all the May-time 

Was fairer than was she. 
No voice in Nature's play-time 

So full of witchery. 

The meadows, hills and woodside 

Would to her glee reply, 
And not a sweet thing could hide 

From her sylvan sorcery. 

Her blythe way was their spirit, 
And she their queen divine 

With a soul which kept love near it 
And I believed her mine ! 

How this old slope clings to me 
With its yellow and its gold ! 

For still her voice sings to me 
From living Springtimes old. 

[47] 



Here, as one morning brightly 
The sun broke through the mists, 

Which, rising feathery, Hghtly, 
Floated as their spirit lists. 

She stood, and round her fair feet 

The golden poppies spread, 
While April's balmy air sweet 

Played o'er her sunny head. 

And I, from distant absence, 

Just on that morn returned, 
With glad, free feet a-dance hence, 

Each joy anew discerned, 

Hearing the mill-stream's fall free 

At its young song of hope, 
Beheld, and heard her call me 

Adown this flowery slope. 

And, with delight which thrilled me, 
I sprang toward where she stood, 

But stopped ; for thoughts which filled me 
Were drowned in emotion's flood. 

A new sensation 'd swept me; 

A mingling strange and sweet 
Of moods still hours had kept me 

For dreams at nature's feet, 

[48] 



With something stronger, new born, 

An impulse and an awe ; 
A joy from heart depths true borne, 

But none which nature' d draw. 

But childhood soon o'ercrowded 
With other time delights, 

And I, with gladness flooded, 
Amidst the olden sights 

Forgot all, save the sound of 
Her voice in happy strain, 

And things we had been fond of 
In our old play domain. 

Ah ! How we ran delighted 
From place to place that day ! 

The olden charms new sighted 
Were riched with memory's play. 

We climbed Beldeli's steep side, 
And far out saw the lake — 

Fair Wona's azure sweep wide 
Where wild fowl, wintering, take 

Their misty flight. We sought out 
The home of bird and bee, 

And their sweet secrets wrought out 
With rising ecstacy. 

[49] 



And up and down the mill stair 
We played ; along this road, 

And down this little rill where 
The deserted cabin stood. 

Thus all that day we played 

'Mongst woods and songs and flowers 
With a year's delights, delayed. 

Poured in a few short hours. 

And when at last night came — 
Ah, fast the hours had sped ! 

A sense of pleasure's flight came. 
And she and I were sad. 

For, in the morning's gray light. 

Uncle Meed must ofl" again, 
And I, to ship and spray flight 

Amongst the sailor men. 

So we two that eve parted 
With all our pleasures ceased. 

But, e'er the day had started 
His light well in the east, 

We were out again ; and meeting, 

Down here beside the mill, 
With joyous morning greeting, 

She laughing gay, I still, 

[50] 



Just here beneath this holly — 
The birds were singing near — 

She whispered to me, ' ' Roily, 
I love you. Roily, dear!" 

And, reaching o'er her head, she 
Drew down a flowered spray. 

And plucked a bloom from the red tree, 
And, with a witching way. 

She pinned it to my blue coat 

Aye laughing, laughing still. 
And through my heart the new note 

Went singing with a thrill. 



The tears would come to blind me 
Though to keep them back I'd try, 

Till Uncle Meed said, kindly : 

" There now, my lad, don't cry." 



But where now is this sweetness 
Which clung so to my soul? 

Where joy's old-time completeness? 
Where love which sweetly stole 

[51] 



From youth's fair days to manhood, 

Seizing upon my heart? 
Where she, O torture rude ! 

Of me a hving part ? 

Gone ! Gone ! For aye departed ! 

O heart with pain o'er filled ! 
O God ! that I were free-hearted, 

With all my yearnings stilled ! 

Free with but childhood's fancy, 
A wind-tossed bud of joy 

With but nature to entrance me, 
A wild, delighted boy ! 

* Ji< * >K 

Farewell, loved land of childtime ! 

Irene ! Farewell to thee ! 
Forever o'er the wild brine 

I'll sail and sail from thee. 



P. A., 1902-03 



[52] 



SONNETS 



CALIFORNIA 

What land was that beside the sunset seas 

Where dwelt the immortal bliss the Grecian 
dreamed ? 
What visioned country called Hesperides 

Where eternal Spring and song and joy teemed? 
A happy land not tried by sun nor cold, 

But gently by the breath of Zephyrus kissed. 
A land of fruits and flowers manifold 

Where they who dwelt an endless joy possessed. 
My Hesper land, within the seaside bowers, 

Where beauty, song and bloom each past 
redeem, 
Where richly blessed is life with happy hours, 

You've caught the earthly portion of this dream. 
Sunlight and azure depths ; a land of gold 
Where Summer never dies nor joy grows old. 



[55] 



ARGONAUTA 

Lo, like a wanderer down the wasted past 

Of ruin centuries old, I sit agaze 
On broken walls and desolation vast 

Which breathe a sense of long- forgotten days. 
As if, with backward look through ages gone, 

One should behold the living waste of Tyre ; 
Or, gazing on the walls of Babylon, 

Should see the blackened wreckage of its pyre. 
Save that the straggler there within its gates 

Saw but its kingly form forever down, 
While he who wanders here knows other fates, 

And rises in his might the waste to crown. 
And over him the visioned towers gleam — 
The builded city of the golden dream. 

S. F., May 6, 1906 



[56] 



INTERIM 

It is a hushed and quiet eve of Fall. 

As silent, listless as the faded leaf 
Upon the ground. And just as empty all 

Of wish, of strife, of living joy or grief; 
A voiceless hour not even tongued of Wind, 

As storyless of what has gone before 
As if't had left no finished strife behind, 

Nor to a new-found hope would waken more. 
But in the lull still holds the heavenward fate. 

The triumph of pain and joy but stays its strife, 
The shaping winds but pause, the buds but wait. 

There is in life a death, in death a life. 
The joy, the pain, the sun, the storm inures. 
The blossom fades, the flower still endures. 



[57] 



THE MARCH OF LIGHT 

The sun wheels down the wide-enkindled west, 

His glory speeding to some distant land. 
And, from the mountain's erst-engoldened crest, 

His light uplifts with night revealing hand. 
And down upon the landscape fall the shades 
With threat of gloom eternal wrapped in night. 

But, as westward the last gold gleaming fades, 
The starry heavens wake with beaming light. 
From deep to deep illumes the spreading arch 

Till every trailing shadow feels the thrill. 
And owns the eternal triumph of the March. 

E'en thus, O soul, thy lighted fires burn still. 
And, gleaming with the one great Giving Ray, 
Shine on above the shadows toward the Day. 



[58] 



SLEEP 

The flooding moon in beauty sails the deep 

Beyond the gauzy curtains of the night ; 
And, from the broken azure's farther sweep, 

A deep sweet silence pinions earthward flight. 
Upon the noiseless wings the wide blue cool 

Floats down its slumber gift to mortal rest, 
Created of the poise of strifeless rule 

Along the marches of the deep's behest. 
And in man's pausing soul breathes its calm force 

For longer hours of the terrestrial way 
Till morn, obedient to the nearer course, 

Shall ope the flaming portals of the day ; 
And, from the bosom of the nearer sky, 
The downy robes of sleep put softly by. 



[59] 



O SEA! 

O Sea ! I stand upon this silent height 

High here above the heads of hills and woods, 
And sad, deep thoughts, with weary-winged flight, 

Rise up from out thy distant solitudes. 
For, when I think of all the years I've lost 

Down in the chasm of dumb, benighted time. 
My heart, against the blackened shore crags tossed 

Along Life's sea, bleeds in the bitter brine. 
Are there no depths within the all-spent past, 

O Sea, which treasure up what was its store? 
For I, agaze upon the empty vast, 

But hear the waves which echo, sad, No more. 
Cannot Time's surge cast on a yearning spot 
One coral piece from some sunk isle forgot? 

King's Mountain, April 1901 



[60] 



YOUTHTIME 

When, in the youthful Springtime of my strife 

I first essayed the measures of my Art, 
And dipped a tender pen in beauteous life 

To sing the stirring music of my heart, 
I came unto a place of still delay 

Where young-houred Song, with flowers in his 
hair. 
Sang o'er the valley green. And my heart's way 

Bent toward its own, care-free and debonair. 
And then I dreamed the morn would on to noon 

In happy sequence, sheening shadowed streams ; 
And shades of early dawn would brighten soon. 

But life is not so well as youthful dreams. 
The unsophisticated pleasure pure 
Of youth, along life's path may not endure. 



[6i] 



AFTER 

Ah, what may youth foreknow, sweet youth 
a-dream 

In golden gossamer of life's intent 
Where morning lights the field with irist gleam. 

Of how of sun and shadow life is blent ? 
Of how, with visions of a captured ray, 

Or chasing gorgeous- winged butterflies. 
Its real will evanesce and fade away. 

And rosy colors blot in tempest skies? 
Of how a pit may catch the venturing foot. 

Nor yet, sweet thought, how chance it may to 
win, 
From all the hungry strife of drear pursuit. 

To find the vanished beauties stored within ; 
But strangely barred and gleamed with shade and 

sun, 
An other-visioned light than that begun. 



[62] 



THE GREENING FIELD 

The lark is cheery in the greening field. 

But, save his song, there is no note of Spring, 
Not one sweet bud the hills or valleys yield ; 

But few dead leaves to Fall-old branches cling. 
With his lone call he stays the year all through 

Like memory or joy which cannot die, 
Holding the wasting old, calling the new ; 

And green upon the vale young grasses lie. 
And I, from journeys far, turned here again, 

Hearing his note, am moved with memory's tale 
How here I sang then long but called the strain 

At last to see my call with song prevail. 
And my heart's seasons in hill and vale are seen, 
Its faded leaves, sunshine and hopeful green. 



[63] 



WINTERED 

When the flower maiden of the summery times 

Withdraws her sweet dominion from the vales 
Because her ardent lover no more climbs 

The zenith hills, but far off southward fails, 
It's then the blue-eyed Sky, with sad regret, 

A shadowed veiHng draws across her face, 
And trails it o'er the hills with weeping wet 

That these fair loves no more the valleys grace. 
The lonely breezes, robbed of sweet delight, 

Go wandering o'er the barren vale in seek 
Of some belated song or flower bright ; 

And sigh upon the hills, in tree-tops bleak. 
So I, of Spring of heart and song bereft, 
Was desolate and drear, in Winter left. 



[64] 



WHENCE 

Sweet Najoqui, what cast of fate was this 

That two, whose souls were fashioned by the 
Muse, 
Should in your realm their metric numbers lisp ? 

That they should touch and then each other 
lose? 
That one from old and empty-numbered hours 

Should travel hence and tarry with a song, 
Aiding the poet pen with your sweet bowers. 

The other-lyred music to prolong? 
That the other your land should natal own. 

And sing here joyous in a lyric youth, 
Then travel hence, 'gainst life the dullard thrown, 

To cease his song and learn the tongue uncouth. 
Was it that they with song should pay you toll. 
Then darkly drift to find your promised goal ? 



[65] 



SONG UNHEARD 

The matchless painter Day with glowing brush 

Paints not the morning sky because it's seen ; 
Nor do the gathered clouds with watery rush 

Restore the barren earth for Beauty's green. 
The luscious bough fruits not for plundering lips 

Nor breathes the flower sweets to be inhaled. 
The planless stem but takes its nature's tips, 

Nor to a conscious death the blade is paled. 
It's only feathered melodist who sings 

From delight and delight a profit makes ; 
Save man who pleasure unto profit brings, 

And from dull plants and skies a beauty takes. 
But beauty still unseen or song unheard 
Are blank as space, half rich as singing bird. 



[66] 



A CAPTIVE HOUR 

A captive hour past I cry, I'm free ! 

The ill-companioned task has slipped its leash, 
And turn I to my own of high degree 

To work the consummation of my wish. 
My sweetened fancy swims in reveries, 

Or, rousing, from the buskin slips the mask, 
Or peeps at wit or mirth where humor is 

The glad forgetter of an unloved task. 
But, in the happy midst, the old returns 

To drive the new-begotten from his pleasure. 
Though old, a stranger it my heart discerns. 

The pauper taker of a princely treasure. 
And I am made the captive for no crime. 

A muse-entrusted spirit serving time. 



[67] 



THE ARTIST HAND 

In hour too rare attending on that world 

Where mimic life laughter and tears compels, 
Seeing an end for pain or mirth unfurled, 

Finding the hill of thought where poetry dwells, 
I see that I of its own wisdom know 

But vague report nor ken its knack of life ; 
That though its sprites through my mind troop- 
ing go 

They lack the craftsman hand to stage their 
strife. 
Although I know but souls from simples sprung^ 

Of humankind in art but vaguer bound, 
I know the wonder tale from Nature's tongue, 

And my own heart arisen from the ground. 
And at some time will come the artist hand 
To use this cruder store of its demand. 



[68] 



THE HOPE IN TO-MORROW 

Many I see with their Hfe's work before, 

At one with what they are, for it's their choice ; 
And hourly they add unto their store 

What makes their lots content, their hearts 
rejoice. 
But I am absent from my luckless lyre 

Till my heart's toil grows dull and strangely 
cold 
Like an outworn book from which has fled the fire 

Through long-neglected page and conning old. 
And then I wish I had been born for else, 

Some useful work which brings a sure reward, 
Nor builded hopes into a vapor melts, 

Nor makes a toil a foreign cost afford. 
Still, though ill gains the song my effort sings. 

The hope that's in to-morrow a solace brings. 



[69] 



GARNERS 

Sometimes I think life is a farce, a cheat. 

For so it seems at times when one must rise 
By ways where few contend yet all compete 

In ignorant strife against the rarer skies. 
Life seems to grudge the soil where toil he must, 

Unto the last to crowd him from the field ; 
Then, like a fanning mill, blow into dust 

The fruitless bundles of his labor's yield. 
But, although few succeed where struggle many, 

And with one's gain but ill another fares, 
Within life's varied fields there is not any 

Where one may not gold grain grow 'mongst 
the tares. 
Though I may not from life my garners swell 
In her large plan she richly serves and well. 



[70] 



THE DAY 

Across the sky an eve of flaming rack 

Bids glorious farewell to the spent day, 
The far-off light from glinting ocean track 

Flings back the golden splendor of his ray. 
And in my soul I see an hour ago 

When over eastern mountains sprang the sun 
That all the earth rose singing from below, 

And filled my heart with burning song begun; 
Then, clouding o'er the song, came toil before 

Till sank the noon. Now song takes heaven- 
ward flight 
To sound its notes and flame its fire once more 

In one brief moment ere the space of night. 
But in some day that ardent light will rise 
To keep the morning's course till even dies. 



[71] 



INSPIRATION 

That hour my soul bids me to heights arise, 

And clothes itself with shapes of its own fire, 
And, with inspired vision, sweeps the skies. 

The throned possessor of a great desire ; 
Then high creations on my presence tend, 

Then life and death lay tribute at my feet. 
Then mind and heart their aiding forces lend, 

Then world its wisdom brings to make complete. 
But when the shaping hand would start to build. 

And train the wished-for hour's later stay, 
That humble need which long my time has filled 

Dull-handed comes and takes the light away. 
Then over sunken embers my heart bends 
In effort to renew what my soul sends. 



[72] 



THE THREE-FOLD SELF 

A three- fold self my fate has worked with life ; 

And each across the other striven in turn : 
The artist soul, with ill gains in the strife, 

Who sees base days his golden hours burn ; 
The gentler one who still is but the boy, 

And sees a harsh demean with sensitive fears, 
Who dreamed Hfe bright and sweet, a lovely joy, 

But finding it scarce so has smiled with tears ; 
And then the other one who later came, 

And rose above these twain with master sway. 
Born of the strife in the survivor's game, 

The man who came to fight and win the day. 
Although some lose and some come greater through, 
Who climbs by life' s hard course learns deep and true. 



[73] 



AS ONE WHOSE SOUL ACCORDS 

As one whose soul accords with music's soul 

Gains from his instrument a sweetened pain 
PVom mood disconsolate swollen o'er control, 

And to his heart's deep treasure adds a gain ; 
And, moving the sad-souled unhappy air 

With consolation's heavenly harmony. 
He takes some other heart dejected there, 

And soothes its marring pain with melody ; 
So I with feelings pent turn toward my muse. 

And through its suing numbers free my heart ; 
And gain thuswise a balm others refuse, 

And add the softened wealth its strains impart. 
Mayhap when from such song my pen has ceased 
Someone, reading, will find his pain released. 



[74] 



THE DULL-HOURED REALM 

What time I from this dull-houred realm gain forth 

In brief contact with world of my own tastes, 
Of my own self to find that richer worth 

In what my dull continuance but wastes ; 
And feel one passing moment of that man 

My inward eye beholds, but else unknown, 
Built of a height immortal worlds to scan, 

But humble servant to the baser throne ; 
I then look on my draggled spirit's rags, 

And ask myself: All this, what is it for? 
Which makes worth cheap, and struggling height 
down drags, 

And sets my greater self with such at war. 
Ah, well ! for every loss there is a gain. 
And by this wise it is I'll rich through pain. 



[75] 



TWO POWERS 

Two powers there are to which I pay my tasks, 

Two thrones, one greater, one of lesser worth ; 
And each of me attendance on it asks, 

One drawing to the skies, one down to the earth. 
Upon the greater one high sits my Art, 

And with a regal splendor hails my soul, 
And owns the loving pledges of my heart ; 

But few the hours of mine at her control. 
And on the other one sits Humble Toil. 

Him have I never loved. Yet not for pay 
Have I served him alone, but in his moil 

Put my own self with honest will alway. 
Though I have paid him rich for his support 
I've earned the purple still for my Art's court. 



[76] 



SERVICE 

Not unto his own self does any live, 

The selfish holder of an unshared trust. 
His own existence must receive and give ; 

And whether with a will, still give he must. 
The skies lend colors to the painter's oils. 

And music has more hearts than the musician's. 
The wealthy gains his wealth from thousand toils, 

The poet's strong lines grow from small additions. 
And thus great heart in lowly help may be. 

Nor I forget the lesser riches paid, 
But give in gratitude the common fee, 

And own the forward worth in backward aid. 
And, with the greater man, does great deserve, 
I shall at last go free, go free — to serve. 



[77] 



THE WINTERED SPRING 

The sky is islanded with snowy clouds 

Floating within a violet sea. And soft 
The breezes wander 'mongst the golden crowds 

Of ores nodding on the emerald croft. 
The sun pours down his light in beams of glory, 

And bright-winged insects pipe their infant joy ; 
The lark's new-taken measure hints a story, 

The linnet sings his heart in unalloy. 
And I, a loiterer, look on the cast 

Of sweet, unbounded joy in everything 
Which hears no echoes of a wintered past, 

Nor lets one note sound stranger to the Spring. 
But with my heart Spring makes no joyous tryst. 
I may not sing, but to the singer list. 



[78] 



IN STORE 

As one who toils against the needy hour, 

Encumbering his present need, to store, 
Thinking the store as well the less devour, 

Each joy to make the hoarded joy more ; 
And of the day fond dreams when from the vault 

He shall withdraw what planning has laid by. 
And to his heart's designs fit, nor with fault, 

The pleasure-purchase of reality ; 
So I some such. From dreaming on to-morrow, 

I save in hope what now is poor and small ; 
And, for that greater pay, with leases borrow — 

Drawn up by dreams — till time shall pay it all. 
Though he who saves may yet come pleasure-poor. 
He still may be twice rich — in dreams and store. 



[79] 



TRIUMPH 

When I behold time pass without the light 

My muse should raise in brightness toward the 
noon, 
And but the ray of hope shows in the night 

Like slender crescent on the faded moon ; 
And, from that orient land toward which my soul 

Presses, the full-houred noon to overtake, 
There comes a brightening gleam should day unroll, 

But still the morn, delaying, does not break, 
I yet can think : the all-prevailing day 

A little while must stand the gloom, till lo! 
A golden morning breaks with radiant ray, 

And all the hindering shades dissolve and go. 
And thus it is that triumph wakes to tend 
On him who holds his course on to the end. 



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